


Keepsake

by minervamoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25705210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamoon/pseuds/minervamoon
Summary: He always says he’s not going to do it again.  He always says the last time was the last time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31
Collections: Name That Author Round Five: After Dark Redux





	Keepsake

He moves the painting.

_Don’t do this._

He spins the dial.

_Stop. You weren’t going to do this again._

He always says he’s not going to do it again. He always says the last time was the last time. 

He pulls the thick, metal door open and stares at what’s inside. He backs away as if it could leak out and burn, or as if it knows his secrets. Shame floods his body, reddening his face even as he drops to his knees. He can’t stop himself now. If there was ever a chance of him stopping, it was before he moved the painting. Now all he can do is give in to the inevitable. 

He stares up at the thermos, all unassuming tartan and beige as he opens his fly. His hands move on their own. He pulls his cock from his pants and grasps it roughly.

_“Let me tempt you…”_

Yes, always.

_“Oh, we’re not friends. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.”_

He remembers the faint blush on those round cheeks, the nervous smile. Embarrassed at getting caught with him. His hand tightens and begins to move.

_“Crowley?”_

He’d looked so excited for a split second as he turned around. Excited to see him. His hand quickens its pace.

_“No! Absolutely not!”_

The curve of his mouth even as he refused him, the perfect ‘o’ of it. His hips snap up. He’s fucking his fist as he thinks of those glorious, pink lips on forks, on spoons, on glasses, on the angel’s own fingers. But not on him, never on him.

_“A little demonic miracle of my own.”_

What more can he do? What more can he say? His eyes beg the thermos for answers as his motions become frenzied. He can feel the impending release. The thermos, as always, is silent.

_“Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing?”_

His groans break in a sob even as his back arches and his toes curl beneath him. His eyes lock onto the tartan keepsake again, standing there in witness to his debauchery. Another sob racks his body as he curls into himself, hiding his shame from the angel’s token.

_“You go too fast for me.”_

His throat is tight and raw from the mix of moans and wailing spilling from it as his body comes to completion. His stomach rolls at the feel of the hot seed on his hand. 

The thermos stands pristine and pure like the being who gave it to him. 

He is on his feet, slamming the door with a loud clang. He lets his head fall against the cold metal hard, the sting of it sobering. He does it again. Again, againagainagainagain, until red mixes into his tears and the pain in his head almost drowns out the pain in his heart.

He slides down the wall and crumples onto the floor. 

_This was the last time._

He knows it’s a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I won't leave it like this. I have plans for a sequel to give our snake a happy ending.


End file.
